Chapter 4 - Sunday Morning Ambush
On Sunday morning, Brian and Melissa believed they still held the upper hand. They had spent the entire weekend regrouping, convincing themselves that my visit to Dr. Sterling had just been a desperate fluke.
At nine-thirty sharp, Brian’s black BMW pulled into the driveway of the Victorian, followed immediately by Melissa’s white Lexus. They hadn't come alone.
Sitting in the backseat of Melissa’s car was an estate liquidator named Greg Caldwell, whom Melissa had secretly hired to appraise the furnishings, and a junior real estate agent from Brian’s social circle. Brian was determined to force the issue. If I refused to go to Brookmeadow quietly, he planned to surround me with professionals, overwhelm me with legal jargon, and pressure me into signing an exclusive listing agreement right there on the kitchen island.
Brian marched up the stone walkway, his chest puffed out, clutching a leather portfolio filled with Brookmeadow admissions contracts and real estate disclosure forms. Melissa walked a half-step behind him, wearing an impeccably tailored camel hair coat and oversized sunglasses, already calculating her share of the profits.
“Just remember the plan,” Melissa whispered as they reached the front porch. “We don't argue with her about Thursday. We act completely sympathetic. We tell her we’re taking the burden off her shoulders whether she likes it or not. The appraisers will start in the master bedroom.”
“Don’t worry,” Brian replied, pulling his emergency brass key from his pocket. “I’m not letting her ruin our financial future over some stubborn pride.”
He jammed the key into the deadbolt.
It didn't turn.
Brian frowned, pulling the key out and inspecting the brass teeth. “What the hell?”
“What’s wrong?” Melissa asked, tapping her designer boot impatiently against the welcome mat. “Did you use the right key?”
“Of course it’s the right key! It’s the key I’ve had on my ring for ten years!” Brian retorted, shoving it back into the cylinder and twisting violently. The key refused to budge. The deadbolt had been completely replaced with a sleek, brushed-nickel electronic keypad lock.
Brian stepped back, his mouth gaping as he looked at the gleaming new hardware. “She changed the locks. That crazy old woman actually locked me out of my own family home!”
“Ring the bell, Brian!” Melissa snapped, her composure cracking. “Bang on the door! Greg is sitting in the car waiting for us!”
Brian hammered his fist against the heavy oak wood. “Mom! Open the door! It’s Brian! We know you’re in there! Open this damn door right now!”
The heavy front door swung open.
Brian opened his mouth to deliver a blistering lecture, but the words instantly died in his throat.
Standing in the entryway was not a frightened sixty-five-year-old widow in a cardigan. Standing in the entryway was an athletic, thirty-five-year-old man wearing a paint-splattered gray sweatshirt, holding an electric drill in one hand and a tape measure in the other. Behind him, a young woman with a noticeable baby bump was carefully painting the foyer baseboards an elegant shade of navy blue.
May you like
Brian froze. His arm remained half-raised in the air, his leather portfolio nearly slipping from his fingers.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Parker asked, his voice calm, polite, but unmistakably firm.
